The Bruise_Black Sky (15 page)

They did look alike. Ben didn’t have many pictures from his childhood once he’d left Devon and went with his mother to live in Yorkshire. But he thought Hayden was a good likeness for him at eight—and would therefore make a very good little Oliver.

Hayden was also useful for Ben to start picking up the accent he needed. It was difficult for an Englishman, because the main sound used in English was entirely missing in Kiwi. It just didn’t exist. Ben practised saying in his mind not ten beds in the shed but tin bids in the shid—which is how Hayden sounded to him.

And then the obvious hit him. When Nikolas next texted him and asked him where he was, Ben could text back.
Sitting on a deck.
Nikolas wouldn’t get it, but
he
would. He’d never grow tired of that little joke.

What’s NZ like? Full of decks.

The possibilities were endless.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ben walked slowly into the tiny schoolyard in Paradise amongst the children playing during morning tea in their shorts and T-shirts, despite the snow covering the ground. He stood for a long time, studying a little boy hanging upside down on the monkey bars. Someone shouted, “Cut.” The children carried on running around and screaming, but someone came up to him, dabbing at him, fidgeting with him.

It was the first thing he’d discovered about being a movie star. You didn’t own your own body. They’d cut his hair yesterday. Gladiatorial short. He’d shaved it a couple of times before, so it wasn’t a complete shock, but it was unnerving, nevertheless, to see just how much it now made him resemble Oliver Whitestone.

Peter wanted an unusual scene to grip the audience at the start of the movie. Oliver, returning to Paradise, is ostensibly watching children playing in a schoolyard. He has a conversation with one little boy who says he’s too busy to talk for long…that he has things to do. When Oliver straightens, everyone would realise there was no little boy—that Oliver was talking to his younger self, imagining himself at eight, with everything ahead yet to come, desperate to leave Paradise and make something of his life.

Peter wanted to create the impression that, if he could, Oliver Whitestone would have had a lot to say to his eight-year-old self.

Ben couldn’t help but see the parallels with his own life. Eight. What would he say to his mute, eight-year-old self? Run? Keep running? Maybe if he got his timing right, he could go back before his mother was taken from him, and then he could have said the same to her.
Run! Keep running!

They filmed him walking into the schoolyard and standing with the children over twenty times. Sure, it was the first day of shooting and everyone was settling in with new equipment, new colleagues, shaking out. But twenty times! Look over. See the kids. Walk over. Stand and observe them. How hard was that? It was freezing, too, and a couple of times it had started to snow, so that had ruined the continuity or something. They would go for a take the next day, Peter said.

Hayden had spent the day hanging upside down, so he was slightly more manic than usual that evening, so when he said to Ben, “Did you see the dithfrit?” Ben put it down to too much blood in the brain and ignored him.

They were all eating together in the catering tent, which was being warmed by space heaters. Most of the Kiwi crew had apparently never experienced heating before, so were edged over to one side, muttering. The American crew and Ben, therefore, had the benefit of it to themselves. The food was exceptionally good, which rather threw Ben’s diet plans. It was all very well not eating when you had to do all the cooking, but not eating when someone else made sticky toffee pudding with custard, just because you were “British” and they were under the mistaken impression the “British” ate either that or spotted dick whenever they got the chance, was too good an opportunity to miss. Besides, he’d been standing in the cold all day. He deserved the calories.

Tuning out Hayden and his incomprehensible accent was one thing, ignoring his young American assistant when she said in a whisper, “Hayden’s not to know,” was something else.

“Sorry, what?”

“About the death threat. Don’t tell Hayden.”

Peter, who had just sat down, rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Bev. It was Ben not Hayden you weren’t to tell.”

She appeared genuinely mortified, seemed to realise there wasn’t much she could do to make the situation better, so left. Ben gave Peter an enquiring, expectant brow raise.

Peter shook his head and took his time lighting a pipe, an affectation he made much of, tamping and puffing until he was happy with it. “Oliver started receiving death threats on the show as soon as he started on the
Wars
. They continued right though until…well, until they weren’t making any fucking sense, given he was dead. New one was sent to my office in LA last night.”

“Death threats? Why? Who?”

Peter looked askance. “Why the hell some freako shit sends death threats? I don’t know, Ben. I didn’t know then, and I sure as hell don’t know now. Gina—my ex—saw the ones Ollie got. Scared the shit out of her. Said Oliver should stand down as Yoshi. Was all for writing him out of Season Two.”

“Is that why he killed himself? I never read about this on the web!”

“No, we never released the details. Some exec high up in the studio didn’t want litigation from the crazy if we implied his threats drove Ollie to fucking kill himself. But this is just insane now.”

“So I’ve had a death threat from the same guy who might legitimately think he succeeded the first time round? Might be willing to go the extra mile on this one?”

Peter seemed to need to think about the implication in his question for an oddly long time. He finally narrowed his eyes and waved his assistant over. “Get onto Billy-Ray. I want bodyguards on set tomorrow. Got me?” She nodded and scurried off.

Peter began to reassure Ben that he was totally safe.

Ben realised Peter had missed his point entirely—he was thinking,
Bring it on, psycho. You’re not dealing with an actor now.
He almost relished the challenge.

Peter giving out imperious orders to
Billy-Ray
was impressive, but even the man who had single-handedly saved the New Zealand economy with his film about a crashed humanoid alien who had changed the course of Maori history by bringing them futuristic technology, which had been filmed entirely in-country, could not have bodyguards on set within a few hours just because he wanted them.

A firm had to be contracted, suitable candidates assessed and recruited and then flown to New Zealand. It all took time. Ben only knew all this because production was halted until they had the necessary security to continue.

Ben and Hayden got to go skiing every day.

It was a strange life.

They managed to get the one scene of Oliver watching the children at play in the can before they stopped filming. As Peter pointed out, the local kids would soon break for their winter holiday, and the school would be empty.

There were now long hours of hanging around with the same faces, day in and day out. A little over a week after the threat had been received, a minibus arrived with four men on board. Peter took one as his personal bodyguard, two were allocated to the general cast and crew, and one was assigned specifically to Ben.

Ben eyed up his new bodyguard with some interest.

They were going to spend a great deal of time together, after all. He’d been hoping he’d be an ex-soldier so they had something in common.

The man was, he said.

Not American?

No, he confirmed. Not American.

Peter was buzzing around, directing everyone, trying to get back on track, so Ben couldn’t say as much as he wanted.

The man said to call him Bronislav.

For that’s what he was.

Ben just nodded and replied, stonily, “You can call me
sir
.”

Bronislav didn’t hesitate. “Yes,
sir
.”

§§§

Bronislav was impressive. Ben had to give him that. He looked like a bodyguard, but, more importantly, he actually acted like one. He didn’t stand around in sunglasses, flexing his muscles, but within an hour he had every single person on set logged, checked out, and was monitoring anyone new arriving or leaving. He was apparently taking his duties guarding Ben very seriously.

Film sets were intensely busy places. Ben was never on his own. Ever. He was always surrounded by people fidgeting with him, so even if he had wanted to speak with Bronislav that first day, he didn’t get a chance to privately. What they said to each other had to be done surrounded by twitching wardrobe and makeup assistants or hair stylists—although how the hell you could style a shaved buzz was beyond him.

His new bodyguard needed a haircut and a shave.

He appeared as a man who had gone through and come out the other side of hell, Ben’s assistant claimed. He found this comment rather surprising, but, studying Bronislav that day when he got the chance, he supposed he
could
see this. The tall, scarred man was gaunt and had a week’s heavy beard, which was grey, making it difficult to judge his age. He scared the crew, that was for sure, and they avoided him. Hayden, however, said he was awesome and followed him around.

Everyone was rather taken aback at the dedication of this new bodyguard. Impressed but surprised. The other three men who’d been recruited hung around far more ex-soldier like—posing in their shades and chatting everyone up for free coffee. Ben’s bodyguard was so sharp that when one local approached him to ask for an autograph, the man was taken down, literally, into the snow, and apologies had to be made—by Ben. Bronislav didn’t do apologies, apparently. He watched Ben like a mountain lion observing a wild mustang—more like predator with prey than protector with one to be preserved. But as Ben reassured his young assistant, when she nervously pointed this resemblance out to him, what better defense for any wild creature than to have the most skilled and ferocious of all predators wanting him and willing to fight off rivals for him? She didn’t appear to get this and hastened off, writing something on her clipboard.

§§§

Ben’s trailer had become his place of refuge.

And once he was in it, he could stop pretending he knew what he was doing and being something he patently was not.

He didn’t see, therefore, why his bodyguard felt he needed to stay in there with him—at least until dark, he said, when the crew retired to the local motel.

They sat opposite each other across the small table, regarding one another.

Ben wasn’t quite sure how he’d pulled it off.

He’d left him moping in Devon less than two weeks ago, and now here he was, having apparently discovered a death threat that had not been known outside Peter Cameron’s LA offices, joined a personal security firm under yet another assumed identity, been recruited for this job in the States, and then flown all the way to Paradise.

No wonder he hadn’t had time to shave.

“Hello, Nikolas.”

Nikolas nodded back. “Hello…sir.”

§§§

Ben found out fairly easily how Nikolas knew about the death threat—he’d been monitoring all Peter Cameron’s emails, or Kate had, on his behalf.

What confused Ben slightly more was that Nikolas refused his weary capitulation and gesture to the bed. “No, that’s not why I’m here. I can’t guard you if I’m in
bed
with you.”

“Huh? What?”

Nikolas’s gaze didn’t falter. “I didn’t come here because it amused me to see your expression when I got off the bus.” He suddenly leant forward. “What do you know about these threats?”

“Not much. We’re a bit isolated here, as you may have noticed. Someone sent an email to Peter’s office in LA. They think it’s the same as the ones sent to Oliver before—which is insane.”

“No, the insane thing is that Peter Cameron didn’t tell you the history of this before he persuaded you to do this thing. This wasn’t just some troll on a blog, Ben. It was a very real and direct threat. Did he show it to you?”

“I only found out by mistake. Look, Nik—” Nikolas pulled a folded photograph out of his pocket and smoothed it open on the table.

Ben picked it up, studying it. He placed it back down. “Okay. That changes things.”

Nikolas nodded. “So, this is not for my amusement, Ben, or because I am so sad I couldn’t have us apart.” He tapped the piece of paper. “
This
is
not
going to happen.”

Ben lowered his eyes to the simple sheet once more. It had been done like a storyboard, a graphic novel. The first shot was of him standing on the lakeshore when he’d arrived in Paradise. It appeared to have been taken by a telephoto lens from across the lake on the snow-covered mountains. He’d been told the mountain range was entirely inaccessible—no roads in or out. It was a common feature of the mountains in New Zealand. But that’s where the photo had been taken. The series of shots then proceeded to show Ben’s death, although, of course, it wasn’t him, but Oliver in his role as Yoshi seamlessly blended by Photoshop, so which one eventually ended up bloodied and dead on the pebbles was anyone’s guess. It was utterly chilling. Ben supposed actors had to get used to seeing themselves dead. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought about before and didn’t like it when it happened to him. Nikolas clearly didn’t appreciate it either. He had to agree with Nikolas’s assessment that this hadn’t just been sent by some nutjob on day release.

Ben suddenly had a sure and certain conviction of how Nikolas’s two weeks had been—being sent this by Kate and taking action so swiftly and decisively that he apparently hadn’t even—“When did you last eat?”

“What? That’s irrelevant. I don’t remember.”

Ben went to the small fridge in the trailer and pulled out some sandwiches, handing them to Nikolas. He was dismayed to see that Nikolas wolfed them down. There was a first time for everything apparently.

When he was done, Nikolas stood. He swayed a little so sat back down, but muttered, “I have to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“I told you, I can do nothing effective sitting in here!”